


Don't forget

by SuperWhoLocked221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Coffee Shop, Ficlet, M/M, angsty, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLocked221b/pseuds/SuperWhoLocked221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had always told sherlock that love is a disadvantage, and Sherlock always believed him. However, those who do not want to fall in love are not exempt from it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't forget

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short ficlet Me and My bud Leah wrote. 
> 
> Follow me at http://badgerdash-cumberquat.tumblr.com/  
> Follow Leah at http://benedict-khan-you-not.tumblr.com/

Looking back on it, Sherlock should have known. He shouldn’t have let his mind be clouded by the shy glances they shared, by the smiles they tried to hide from each other, and least of all by the warmness that settled in his chest whenever he stepped up to the counter. He let his judgment fall prey to the ridiculous notion that nothing else mattered but the blonde boy who made him coffee, as if nothing could go wrong in his life as long as he sat in the same chair facing him everyday, reading his paper and listening to the familiar sounds of the small corner shop.

*********

Sherlock woke up earlier than normal and trudged across London in the pouring rain to his local coffee shop. As he crossed the street, he swore. A sign covering the door read, “CLOSED INDEFINITELY DUE TO HEALTH VIOLATIONS.” Already irritable from his lack of caffeine, Sherlock barged into the nearest shop he could find, a small shop on the corner named Speedy’s. He quickly ordered his drink, looking down at his wallet as he searched for the right note.

  


“That’ll be £4.75. Name?”

  


Sherlock quickly looked up to see, for the first time, who the server was. He looked to be about 24, the same age as Sherlock. His hair was as light as sand, and his eyes a deeper blue than the ocean water. He was beautiful. Sherlock’s mouth went dry as the barista waited, his confusion growing by the second.

“Sir?”

Sherlock felt himself snap back to reality, but as he went to answer, it occurred to him he didn’t know what the server had asked. He stared blankly at the boy, his jaw hanging as he searched for a response. The boy, however, seemed to find it hysterical. He smirked, showing off his white teeth, and laughed quietly before speaking again.

“And I thought _I_ was bad without my morning coffee. Having trouble remembering your name there, mate?”

 

He felt his ears redden as his face grew uncomfortably hot. The dark haired genius who prided himself in knowing everything about everyone couldn’t answer a simple question, and here was a boy he didn’t know calling him out on it. Making fun of him. He should have been embarrassed. Mad, even. But instead, he smiled.

  


The boy’s laugh was infectious, and soon the two of them were chuckling together at the absurdity of it all. As they calmed down, Sherlock bit his lower lip to keep his smile from turning into another fit of laughter.

“It’s Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes.”

The server bit back a smile as well as he carefully wrote the name in marker over the side of the cup.

“Well, Sherlock. Try not to forget next time.”

The two shared another quick laugh as he made the coffee and handed the steaming cup to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly scanned the apron before finding his name tag.  

  


“I won’t forget, John.”

  


Sherlock walked out onto the street, running to flag a cab before he got too wet. As he sat down on the leather seat, he breathed in the steam from his coffee, smiling to himself as he let the hot air settle in his chest and take away the chill of the wet London morning.

*********

Finally, after a long day of lectures, he was in the privacy of his dorm. Laying on the bed, he scolded himself. Mycroft had always disapproved of caring. _All lives end, and all hearts are broken_ , Sherlock thought to himself. It was something Mycroft had always told him. Caring was not an advantage. _Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side_ , his brother mentally bombarded him. He thought of his encounter at Speedy’s and cursed inwardly. Love at first sight? How cliche could he get? No. Love was not an option. Under no circumstances was he to fall in love.

*********

Sherlock avoided speedys like the plague. He even avoided the street when he could. He didn’t need any reminders of the blonde haired boy, whose name he refused to say, that would undoubtedly be waiting behind the off-white counter. He didn’t need to remember the way sparks flew up his arm when _he_ handed him his cup, and for a brief second their fingers brushed. No, he would do what he had promised _that boy_ he wouldn’t do. Forget.

  


Yet fate seemed to have other plans for him, because only two days after his first encounter with _him_ , Sherlock found himself missing his leather gloves. The very gloves he had taken off to dig through his wallet two days before, and the very gloves that were sitting behind the counter of Speedy’s, guarded by _him_.

  


_Go in. Get the gloves. Get out._ Sherlock repeated it in his head like a personal mantra as he rounded the corner onto Baker Street, walking with purpose. _Go in. Get the gloves. Get out._ Sherlock brought his hand up to the door and pulled it open, feeling a sudden flood of confidence. He didn’t owe _Him_ anything. _Go in. Get the gloves. Ge-_ An all too familiar man walked out from the back room, and as he looked up, his blue eyes locked on to Sherlock’s gray ones, and suddenly breathing became the most difficult thing in Sherlock’s life. _John_.

 

John’s lips shot upwards in the most genuine, beautiful smile Sherlock had ever seen. It seemed to light up the whole room, and Sherlock knew he didn’t have a chance.

*********

For three weeks, Sherlock went to Speedy’s everyday, regardless of weather, classes, or social conflicts. At first, he stayed for his coffee, maybe the crossword puzzle in the local newspaper, and left by 10:30. As the days went on, his visits bled into the afternoon, and, on the weekends, the vast majority of the day. On one particular Sunday, Sherlock found himself both opening and closing the shop with John. Everyday, Sherlock walked into speedys and was greeted by the familiar smell of coffee and Johns smile. They spent their days sitting at the window table, watching people walk past. John pointed at people, and Sherlock told him everything he could about the stranger. John would laugh. John would call him amazing. Sherlock was happy. Honestly, truly happy, for three weeks.

*********

It was Thursday morning, and Sherlock was running late. It was snowing heavily and roads were backed up all the way to his dorm. It was almost 9:30 by the time he could see Baker Street from his seat in the cab, almost two hours later than he normally arrived. He quickly paid the cab driver and stepped out into the street, jogging across to the sidewalk. He opened the door with a flourish, and began unbuttoning his jacket.

  


“Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was ter-” His sentence died halfway through as he looked up to find, not John, but a young woman with long brown hair manning the counter. Sherlock looked around from his spot in front of the door.

“Excuse me…”

“Molly.” She supplied

“Yes, well, do you know where John is?”

  


Her cheery demeanor faded quickly, and was replaced with a look of concern.

“John was in a car accident this morning. They brought him to Saint Barts, but…”

Sherlock didn’t hear the rest of Molly’s sentence, because he was already out the door.

*********

Sherlock had never been in such a slow cab in his life. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and Sherlock resisted the urge to get out and run the whole way there. After 20 minutes of shouting at his cab driver to “Hurry up,” and “Drive on the sidewalk if you have to,” they finally arrived in front of the hospital.

 

Sherlock ran inside and quickly spoke to the front desk, trying to find John’s location. _Dear God, let him be okay. Just be okay_. He repeated it in his mind like a prayer as he ran down the halls, each step closer to something he didn’t want to see. Arriving in front of John’s room, he froze, and sucked in a deep breathe that was meant to calm him. He kept on thinking, _Be okay, John. You have to be okay_. He opened the door.

*********

Time slows. Nurses and paramedics push him back. All he sees is sandy blonde hair, now red with blood. Smooth skin jagged and cut, glass deeply wedged in his cheek. Eyes shut. Needles, a neck brace, and a breathing tube are jammed down his throat to keep him breathing. Was he breathing? More people push him back. He protests.

“He’s my friend! Let me through!”

His heart monitor stops. They shock him. Nothing.

“Let me through!”

They shock him.

Nothing.

Shock.

Nothing.

*********

It was still snowing as Sherlock stood at the grave. It was simple- Black, with gold lettering that simply spelled ‘John H. Watson’. Sherlock stood awkwardly with some flowers, which had seemed cheesy to him. John would have liked that. He bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold back tears, which was totally irrational considering he was alone. All alone.

  


Alone felt cold. It was the opposite of his days in the warm coffee shop, John beside him serving him free coffee and helping him with crosswords, although he never actually needed it. He had been alone all his life. It should be his most comfortable state. Together should feel foreign. After all, he had spent 24 years alone, and only three weeks otherwise. Yet suddenly, the lack of John was unbearable, like it was impossible to keep living without someone to live with. Like drowning above water.

  


He laid the flowers, a beautiful bouquet of purple and white lilacs and jasmine, in front of the grave and stood up, the collar of his dark Belstaff coat popped to keep the chill of the air from his neck. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His throat felt sore from the tears he was holding back. A tear pushed passed his closed eyelid as he said in a hoarse whisper,

  


“I promise I won’t forget, John.”

 


End file.
